War Paint
by Oaesiir
Summary: Brollmosh Blackwolf is a young orc warrior preparing for war with the Alliance in the wake of the War of the Thorns and the Siege of Lordaeron. Wishing to keep with the traditions of his family, Brollmosh seeks out his family's elder shaman for to undergo a customary ritualistic application of war paint.


A great orc harnessed in plate armor rode along the Southfury in the darkest hours of the night upon a screaming Deathwheel. His hands gripped the handlebars like roots grip the soil. Determination filled his one remaining eye as the wind rushed around him whipping his warbraids about his torso. A large sack sat behind him tied securely with chain to the part of the seat his hulking frame did not fill. He crossed over the road leading further into the Barrens and continued to ride south until the scorched frames of ruined orcish buildings came into focus. The prairie grass had grown tall from neglect and his deathwheel crushed scattered Alliance war-implements that lay rusted in the dirt. He stopped short of the largest dwelling; once a two-story structure. He regarded it with a low growl and a grim expression, turning the key to kill the engine and sliding off as he tucked the great sack under his arm and went forth toward the building. He stopped several paces from the entrance as if he could not go further. Brollmosh closed his eyes and let the bag fall to the ground, digging into his boot for a metallic orc-sized flask. He unscrewed the cork and looked down at the contents with hesitation he would not have if it was his usual draught of rum. The orc inhaled and exhaled heavily.

"Curious recipe you've brought me, mister orc," An apothecary said from within the ramshackle abode he'd constructed in the Shadow Crag to continue his practice. His bony hands held aloft a clear flask filled with a dark green liquid that held several black specks. The forsaken swirled it around as his mechanical eye-piece whirled as its extensions focused in and out upon it, "These saptas are quite fascinating indeed," He remarks in a raspy voice as his rotted vocal chords did their best to produce his words.

"I was told you had made them before," Brollmosh snorted impatiently, a cigar being puffed on between his lips.

"Oh, yes! The concoctions of your shaman are quite ingenious. I do hope my scholarly fingers have not offended your spirits if this concoction is as potent as I've heard," He says with a hacking chuckle, offering the potion to Brollmosh. His black and grey robe sleeves hung almost to the ground as he held up his arm to the orc. Brollmosh snatched it away with a growl, "It only requires the proper ingredients," He retorts.

"Hmm; well, I certainly hope so for your own sake!" He says. The forsaken pulls his goggles up to his forehead and scratches at his fleshy jaw, "You are very familiar, young sir. Did you perhaps participate in my city's final hours?" He asks with a grin of rotted gums and dagger-like teeth.

"I did," He says softly, looking down at the contents of the glass container. Without asking he walked over to a table and snatched up a funnel and produced his boot-flask to unscrew it and fit the funnel over the opening before uncorking the glass bottle with his teeth and spitting away the cork as he drained the contents carefully into the flask.

The Forsaken regarded him with some impunity, "That won't be necessary, those vials are enchanted to-,"

He was cut off by a roar at which the Forsaken eagerly backed away from the gargantuan orc. Brollmosh sneered, "If you are so eager to participate in my people's culture, undead, you'd best be remembering you are a student and we are all your teachers," He retorted as he drained the last contents of the glass container into his flask before tossing it to the undead and re-screwing the lid onto his flask and shoving it back into his boot. The Forsaken nearly fumbled as he caught the vial, blinking his eyelids and putting a clawed finger to his lip in curiosity as he put back down his goggles and scanned the now empty bottle with a hum. He saw the orc leaving and looked up zooming the magnifications of his goggles to follow the orc out, "That being the case, good warrior, would you tell me of your experience after you have completed it? I would most certainly like to have such information for my journal entry on this commission," He says.

The orc stops short, looking over his shoulder to the Forsaken. He hesitates to speak, "You will know, doctor, at the conclusion of this war."

Brollmosh finally mustered the courage to chug the contents of his flask, swallowing it eagerly. It burned his throat worse than any firewater but he had no time to wait. As he finished he coughed and fell to his knees discarding the flask as he voided his bowls into the dirt. He vomited violently until only dry heaves remained as his pupil dilated and all the world blurred around him. The lights became brighter and the darkness became deeper. Slowly a phantom rose from the earth; he was devoid of color aside from a spectral shade and glow as otherworldly smoke drifted about his frame. He was only a few inches shorter than Brollmosh with a wide build made bigger by the great black wolfskin who's head was draped over his own. His face was worn with age and a great scraggly beard hung down to his waist where a belt rested sporting a small dragon's head. His hands sported clawed fist weapons tied about his palms and wrists and upon his feet he wore metal sabatons the shin-guards of which were engraved with the emblem of the Horde. Binding his chest was a harness from which hung many shamanic trinkets; animal bones, rocks, vials of water, burnt bones, and feathers. Brollmosh looked at this great spirit with shock and reverence, bringing his head back down to the dirt he had soiled, "Do I speak to my grandfather, the great shaman Guldra Stonelord?" He asks.

"Only three years hence have I been united with your ancestors, little boy, and you do not recognize me?" He asks impatiently, "Why have you drawn me forth this day?" Guldra asks, craning his head to look about the ruined structures.

Brollmosh rose up onto his knees and picked up the sack. He unbound it and rolled it open to display its contents upon the hide material. Upon it rested many macabre trophies and a few other odd trinkets; a dwarf's still-bearded head, a libram the likes of which was used by Knights of the Silver Hand, small gnome-like hands, several night-elven scalps, a flayed portion of a worgen pelt, a draenei's hooves and a separate set of horns with glowing designs spiraling about them, the ears of a void-elf, a pair of gouged and dried-up red eyes like those of a Dark Iron in a small glass bottle, a bound pile of gryphon feathers, a small furbolg totem, a vial of jinyu scales, the heart of a void elf and the brain of a highborn in the same jar, the icy blue nose of a frost dwarf, the tendrils of a Broken draenei, and a Tushui pandaren tabard drenched in blood. Also among the trophies was a bottle of firewater and another filled with a coagulation of the blood of many victims.

The elder regarded the pile with apparent indifference before speaking, "Do you think you can kill your way to forgiveness, little boy?" Guldra asks with impunity.

Brollmosh looks up in shock, "Wha-what have I done to offend you, grandfather?" He asks with his hands upon his thighs as he stayed on his knees in a sign of submission.

"What have you not done, Brollmosh? You forsake the ways of our people for profit. You drown yourself in foreign drink and women. Not even your fellow orcs have been spared your ax," Guldra responds.

The living orc's eye narrows in defensiveness, "You don't know what you're talking about, grandfather," He responds.

"You dare to presume to lecture your ancestors? I know things now that you cannot possibly comprehend! Even in life, now, I would hold more wisdom than you on your present course could hope to achieve," Guldra answers in outrage. Their voices echoed in the strange pocket between life and death they currently occupied.

"Grandfather, I seek glory in all things – for myself, for our family, for the Horde!"

"Do you, now? I was unaware I was addressing your father, little boy. Shall I call him and your mother forth? Clearly they did not beat you enough in life – as I always warned!"

"It is his example that leads me to you my elder," Brollmosh answers. The shaman seems taken aback and looks down again at the mass of trophies before him and looks up with a sarcastic grin, "Traditionally, your father and mother both took the war paint together. Where is your nightborne play thing?" He says snidely.

Brollmosh's mouth falls open without response looking back to the ground with shut eyes, "I know it is not our way," He says being cut off by elder who interrupts him, "Ah! So that is one sin against our race you recognize, little boy. As always you think with the head between your knees and not the one upon your head! Or with the heart in your chest that pumps the blood of your forefathers – the least of which, I tell you now, would put you to shame," The shaman spits.

Brollmosh's blood fury gets the better of him as he stands up to his full height, "I have done as they have: I have fought and conquered for the Horde and I will live victorious until I am struck down by a worthy opponent as my father!" He barks.

Guldra's old voice cackles, shaking his head, "Would you like to know your father's final moments, little boy?" He says.

Brollmosh's mouth falls open, shaking his head, "I did not come for that,"

The elder cackles, reaching out with his hand to Brollmosh. Even as they stood separated by his blanket of trophies it was as if Guldra was pulling Brollmosh to his fingers; he could not move against it for he was not moving at all. His eyes rolled into his head as a jolt of energy took his body in spasms. When they opened again, he stood on the shores of Krasarang.

From within the eyes of another Brollmosh saw the world. As the orc lurched about a series of Horde entrenchments in the periphery Broll recognized through whose eyes he saw the world: his father. His earth-colored spiked armor shuffled about him, his shield fashioned after the Horde crest was tied to his arm and his spiked ax was held in his opposite hand. As he passed among the dug-in orcs beneath walls of iron spikes he was saluted by many and returned their greetings heading toward a large congregation at a breach in the line checking their arms and armor. As his father approached he was greeted by raucous cheers and raised weapons.

"The Foereaver comes!"

"Rexagan the Immovable!"

"Glory upon his clan!"

"For the Horde!"

"The honor of Blackrock!"

"Fire-beater!"

"Death-killer!"

"Demon-breaker!"

His father's familiar epithets filled his ears. He had not heard them since the Lok'vadnods sung at his father's burial ceremony. The horror of what was about to happen filled him but he was powerless to stop it, to communicate; he was like a puppet on strings. This was one battle he did not wish to see.

Rexagan Foereaver raised his weapons to the sky with a battle-cry that had made him famous since the invasion of the Barrens: "Vengeance for the Wolfmother!" He cried, continuing through the raucous roars and cheers that answered him, bellowing over them, "I quit this field only at the command of our Warchief. I will not forsake it until I crush Lion's Landing beneath my boots and my pauldron-spikes are heavy and thick with the head and blood of Seventh Legion!" He cried, bounding to the front of the line. The warriors broke into war-dances and chants, a cacophony of Lok'tras and Lok'vadnods as their bodies undulated as they rose their blood for the charge. Rexagan faced them and raised his weapons, bounding about the front of the line as he shouted calls to the army over their jubilation for battle that demanded response.

"Raise our bloody flag, lok'tar ogar!" He cries, gesturing forward with his ax as he went to rush the opposing line. The rest struggled to catch up to him.

Lion's Landing responded with a shower of cannon, arrow, and bullet upon them as they rushed forward, Rexagan low and covering himself with his shield. Bullets cracked against his pauldrons and arrows pierced his shield as comrades fell and rushed with him toward the Alliance forward defenses in the sand. Brollmosh flinched at every shot that found its mark, terrified for the first time in his life. His father could not die like this, no.

A bugle sounded a charge and Alliance standards flew over the rampart. The blue-bellies responded with their own cries for battle as their blue and silver standards raised up above the trench line. One human leapt to the top first; clad in blue and gold armor and shining with the Light that was the bane of the Horde. He held aloft a great zweihander and pointed it toward the advancing ranks and flanked by Alliance colors and his comrades climbing over the trench works he rushed straight toward Brollmosh's father.

Brollmosh felt a resurgence of hope against the inevitable. He had seen his father fight and heard stories of his ferocity and indomitable defense. Now he would see it in battle against a worthy foe. Brollmosh suddenly wanted to see who this old man was who rushed with such confidence and zeal against his family. The closer Rexagan got to the human the more he wanted to see the face of this knight of the silver hand. He was weathered but his frame was intimidating for a human and a murderous rage filled his brown eyes that did not dampen in the least as he rushed forward with his claymore low. The closer he got Brollmosh made out a trio of scars running down his face that had faded but not beyond instant view. His bushy grey eyebrows and full beard did nothing to mask what a terrible wound this had once been; yet unlike Brollmosh it seemed his facial injury had not blinded him even as some of the scar tissue crossed over his right eye.

"You're mine, Valourfist!" Rexagan called out across the field as cannon and demolisher shot crashed all around the charging armies. Valourfist? Rexagan knew this man. How? Brollmosh had never heard his name. Valourfist.

At last the two warriors met. The paladin roared in defiance as he brought his claymore up to strike down and Rexagan caught it with his shield swinging for his hip with the ax. The two wrestled as Valourfist gripped the ax by its handle; Brollmosh couldn't believe it. He'd been caught off-guard by human strength but his father had lifted weights no human could ever hope to lift with all his might. But this paladin met his father inch-for-inch in strength. Their eyes locked, "Your mate deserved better, Foereaver. But I'll settle for you!" His voice was a gravely baritone, rough but regal. He suddenly explodes in Light; Brollmosh had no time to be angry. All the world ringed in his ears and his eyes were filled with Light. As he came to Rexagan's vision returned and he turned to see the paladin poised for a fight. Brollmosh suddenly thought; he knows his mother? Who is this man and why is he so aware of his family?

Rexagan rushed with a roar, but suddenly dirt and fire and deafening sound filled his ears again. He felt himself fly into the air and land again, half his face in the ground. His vision and hearing fading; heat, terrible and unbearable heat in his brain as he struggled to focus. He was unarmed save for his shield; his weapon arm twitched and grabbed for sand. Suddenly a blade hot with the holy light touched his face and turned him to look up at the scarred paladin. His armor and weapon now stained with blood that melted away as he glowed with holy zeal. The paladin held his father's ax in one hand and looked it over, looking back down at the broken orc beneath him. His eyes suddenly glowed with a blue light and crackled. His mouth formed words but Brollmosh could not hear him – and neither could Rexagan. Aelamdor reached down to place the ax in his hand. Where his fingers struggled, the Valourfist wrapped them securely about the haft. In his fading vision he saw Alliance soldiers rushing after and cutting down routing Horde warriors. Horde banners were hounded by Alliance colors as they rushed on without their champions. Brollmosh felt himself speak words that his father could not hear himself speak.

"Do as we must."

With that the paladin rose up and raised the tip of his claymore above the orc's face. It glowed brighter and brighter with holy light before it thrust into the orc's face and all things flashed bright before slowly darkening as he felt eyes well with unwilled tears and the sound of battle fade away on the final notes of it Rexagan Foereaver ever heard.

Brollmosh fell backwards from the vision as it ended and the world came back into its smoky focus as the vision he had drunk himself to returned. He stood up and pulled his weapons from his back in a rage and roared; angry tears streamed down his face as he looked all around, swashing his ax and mace at nothing. He wanted to kill this paladin with his bare hands and tear his face open with his fingers. He wanted to wail and cry as he had when they lit his father's body wrapped in a Horde flag upon a pyre of his weapons and trophies, beating the dirt bloody with his fists for justice. He looked back to the shaman with rage and wished his weapons could carve spirits into ectoplasmic ribbons.

"You are a cruel old bastard, Stonelord! I am surprised the stave you used to beat me is not in your hands!" Brollmosh shouted, his voice raspy with unending rage and bottomless sorrow.

The old orc shook his head with disappointment, "I beat you because you had your mother's willfulness and your father's strength. Their blood boils within you at your blackest rage and it will likely cause you to meet his end – or your mother's. What would you have me do, stuff you in a corner and hope you learned your mistake?" He barked.

Brollmosh slowly remembered his place and cracked his neck, returning to his knees before the trophies with a heavy thud letting his weapons lie on either side of his knees. He breathed in and out and reached for the flask in his boot, remembering as he did he had drained his usual comforting rum from it for this errand. Slowly he regained himself and looked up to the spirit of his grandfather, "Who killed my father?"

"A team of cannoneers on the walls; what that paladin did was give your father the only semblance of a warrior's death left to him. Many of his comrades would have hacked him to ribbons as he was paralyzed and taken bits of his armor as souvenirs for their children to play with for all the misery he brought upon them. You are lucky these knights are not so different from us in code. He is known as the Auric Lion; you heard part of his name. He and your father were equals in nearly all things – in fact he and your father share a birthday though on separate calendars and they did not know it," Guldra Stonelord responds.

"I want to kill him," Brollmosh retorts coldly.

"As you should, and the war to come will give you ample time to do so. I can sense your pain; believe it or not, my old heart loves you little boy. So I will spare you the terrible knowledge of your mother's end," Guldra says.

Brollmosh's eyes widened in fear half-expecting Guldra to show him regardless. He opened his mouth to speak again but Guldra interrupted him, "You wish me to perform the war-paint ritual. You do not trust others to do it, and think you are following in your father's footsteps. You think it is some magical charm that merely protects you and empowers you in war. But do you know the other reasons we do this, little boy?" He asks. Brollmosh shook his head in response.

"War is a heavy thing. In ancient times when warriors killed in battle they would spend nights away from the camp with a shaman at a fire drinking special draughts to balance their blood fury. To reflect upon the worthiness of their exploits and actions. It is in a way still done in war-camps across the Horde, though not nearly with as the proper sanctity and respect. Many such traditions are gone now; lost to the progress of the world. Only Frostwolves I believe truly still observe it. It is done to keep the mind clear. War – and our blood fury – drives even the greatest of us insane. It is more than something that takes us in battle; it is a part of our very being. That was something Thrall did not understand – Garrosh, too. It not only mauls like a gronn, but it stalks its prey like a saberon and will claim you when you least expect it. It is a poison as much as a boon – this ritual will allow you to reflect upon your deeds, child. Some warriors considered most dangerous to the clan spent days in meditation at the will of the shaman. Most who truly needed it were too powerful to be forced even by us – especially in the Horde you were born in that considered us dotards and fools, ignorant of true power," Guldra concludes with a laugh, "I have seen the fate of the warlocks, Brollmosh. Heed my warning: do not let your soul be tainted by them. It is better for you to bathe yourself in the blood from your throat than to take their gifts. Their torment knows no bounds; fall to their false promises and you will never join your clan in the world to come – and our ears will be deaf to your pleas for aid as you are tortured in ways even your cruel little brain cannot conceive."

Brollmosh pondered for a moment, "So what is the true purpose of the trophies, then, to make the mixture for the paint?" He asks.

Guldra smiles with satisfaction, "Some wisdom issues forth from that foul mouth of yours, little boy. Tell me: how would you feel if in one of your raids you one day found your father's severed head on a mantle in a human dwelling – or your mother's?"

Brollmosh sneers, "I would kill whoever's abode it was even if I had to track him to Hell itself," He says.

Guldra nods, "What if I tasked you with my otherworldly knowledge to return these trophies to the kin of those you took them from and to recount in detail how you claimed them and to suffer whatever retribution they visited upon you, then?"

Brollmosh furrowed his brow in confusion, "Why would I do such a thing, grandfather?" He asks.

Guldra shakes his head and sighs, "And you were doing so well," He chuckles, "To remind you that war is not something to be done lightly. To show you how your actions have consequences. The cycle of hatred that grips our people is never-ending now; it cannot be halted any more than the rotation of our world in the Great Dark. Much so, the pain of war and its necessity is known to all the truly wise. But if it must be done, then do it properly as when you hunt the beasts of the land. Take only what you need. Do not needlessly deplete the land in a quest for superfluous trophies and to boast of your own power. Let me give you one more question, little boy: why do you think Sylvanas now leads the Horde to war?"

Brollmosh's good eye cocks his brow, "For the Horde's survival. For the Azerite we need to protect ourselves. To keep the Alliance from ever stepping a foot in conquest again upon our people's homelands," He retorts.

Guldra cackles low, looking down at the boy, "And Garrosh?"

Brollmosh was stopped dead, looking about his trophies as if for an answer before looking up, "For the same," He answers.

Guldra waits before responding, "He told himself and the Horde that. But much as one denies a sickness so as to not be perceived as weak so to can a warrior hide his true motivation. Garrosh was haunted by the greatness of his father; both his blasphemies and his triumphs. He sought to surpass him and prove himself as great if not greater. It was this selfish ambition that lead him to take the Sha as a weapon in Pandaria regardless of the horrible consequences it would have for us."

Brollmosh seemed almost offended by this but he stopped short of another outburst, stroking his war-braids in thought with one hand as the other rested on his thigh.

"What about Warchief Blackhand?" Guldra asks to interrupt his contemplation.

"I would think he believed much the same," Brollmosh answers.

"And what do we now know to be the truth?"

"That he was a pawn in the hands of Gul'dan, of the Burning Legion. Our people's strength was abused for the aim of the destruction of Azeroth."

"Yet did any at the time truly realize it that were not regarded as mad traitors or naïve fools, Brollmosh? Has this knowledge ever stopped our people from glorying in the base triumph of the conquests of Blackhand and Doomhammer? Is it not true we did not repent of our errant ways until after we were crushed by the denizens of this world?"

Brollmosh again seemed confused as his values and beliefs were brought under such scrutiny. He reached up to scratch his right cheek, failing to find an answer.

"Do you ever stop to consider the will of your ax as you use it to lop heads or the desires of your mace as you crush bone? Even if it had one, clearly, it has never been able to exert itself to stop you from the deaths you have caused. Does what a warrior believes really matter when he is but a tool at the disposal of his lord?"

Brollmosh finally mustered a slow answer, "It does not."

"What is the difference between the ax in your hand and a warrior who fights for the Horde?"

"He has a choice, a true power to make a willful decision."

Brollmosh suddenly felt again as if Guldra was upon him and not a several feet away as the world warped and faded around him as his mind worked to ascertain the point of this lesson he was receiving.

"There are many choices ahead, Brollmosh; and many battles. Battles you need to fight for the Horde to survive. For our people," He says, suddenly seeming to assume his prior place. "If you have absorbed what I have said, then come with me; ponder. Do this and I will perform the ritual of the war-paint," He says, taking up the bundle of trophies and re-binding it with rope with an outstretched hand before he effortlessly held it in one hand, "Take your ax and gather the lumber I will need for the fire. Do you have a design for the paint in mind I will apply?"

Brollmosh was broken from his pensive, aimless stare and produced a small scroll from within his belt and held it out to Guldra. The orc phantom reached and the paper slowly drifted from Brollmosh's hand into Guldra's; he unrolled it with his free hand and regarded it with a smirk, tilting his head in curiosity, "You have your mother's talent for paints, little boy."

Brollmosh sat before the fire he had made. Guldra had arranged stones in a circle and Brollmosh filled the pit with the appropriately split wood into a cone shape leaving an opening for his offerings to be placed upon a bed of dry prairie grass. Guldra left the bag of trophies open to the side and had conjured two spectral mortars and a pestle. He chanted a deep and low incantation in orcish, singing it from deep within his throat as unseen spectral drums and a ghostly chorus joined him. The drums played a slow, hypnotic beat that added to the dreamlike state of the trance Brollmosh had brought upon himself with his sapta. Guldra conjured a small flicker of flame onto the kindling and ignited the fire. Slowly as the fire grew and clung to the wood he placed each of the trophies into the flame methodically. He held each one in his hand and chanted over it with spells forbidden for someone who was not a shaman like Guldra to even know, much less speak, before he placed it without fear of the heat into the fire. Brollmosh had witnessed this ritual performed on his mother and father and even in life Guldra did not fear the flames that licked his hands when he offered the trophies. One by one each met the flames and was slowly consumed, Guldra pausing to gesture and call up the flame to grow when a particularly hardy substance needed to be burned down to ash. In particular he tore apart the libram in clumps of pages, throwing them in before dumping the binding of the book upon it. Broll felt at that moment it was a good thing Myrelle wasn't here; as eager as she was to join him in the practice of his culture he felt she would've had a fit at the destruction of a book in such a way. He dumped organs and body parts from their physical containers into the fire before tossing them as well into the fire; the elemental flames he conjured with their supernatural power slowly melted all and turned it to ash.

Guldra continued to chant in his hypnotic tone, pacing about and waving his hand about the bonfire as it burned down Brollmosh's offerings. He chanted over the bottle of blood and the bottle of firewater as well, pacing about the fire with them and presenting them on his knees to the smoke that billowed from the fire. At last, still chanting, Guldra reached into the fire with one of the bowls and scooped up a healthy amount of ashes before uncorking the bottle of blood and pouring it into the mixture and stirring it up with his pestle until it was a black goo filled with ashes. He set it down to pour the firewater as well into the other bowl. He smirked as he had some left and took the rest of it for a drink for himself; how the shaman consumed it Broll couldn't fathom but he drank the entire bottle before breathing into the bowl of macabre face-paint. He turned to Brollmosh, "Step forward, warrior."

As the chorus continued his chant and the drums played Brollmosh rose to his feet and presented himself to the shaman. Guldra narrowed his eyes, "Remove the eye-patch," He commands. Brollmosh complied, placing it in a pouch on his belt and baring his socket to the shaman. Guldra snorts, "Well, now you have one of your father's eyes," Brollmosh's serious demeanor broke for a brief moment for a smile and a chuckle.

The mood shifted immediately as the shaman coated his fingers and palm in the mixture with practiced ritualism, the bowl of firewater drifting over to his side as he worked. The shaman then coated Brollmosh's face in the mixture nearly covering it completely. Blessed by the elements Brollmosh was not and the ashes and blood felt uncomfortably hot against his face but he clamped his mouth shut and bore it even as the mixture came dangerously close to his empty socket. After being satisfied with the coating he applied detail; the skull had four spikes placed upon it along his forehead and upon his fat nose the shaman left two holes on either side for the skull's nostrils. At last he gave it teeth along the orc's jaw, still chanting throatily as he worked. At last he washed his hand in the firewater, replacing the paint in the air so he could take the firewater bowl up. He used the firewater to wash away sections of the paint giving Brollmosh's face defined, angular eye-holes. The one which lacked an eye he carefully carved out lightning bolt-like zig-zags from it to accent it. He made them so long they would be easily seen even with his eyepatch.

Guldra stepped back at last seeming satisfied with his work, setting the bowls down by the fire. The ghostly drums and chorus continued as Guldra stepped forward with a wicked grin. With all his might he smacked Brollmosh against the side of his head; the paint stayed in place, "Who are you, warrior?" The shaman barks. The drums beat increased in tempo and the intensity of the chants grew.

"I am Brollmosh Blackwolf," Broll answers.

Another smack to the opposite side of his head. The paint stayed, "Who are you, Brollmosh Blackwolf?" The drums beat faster, the chants grew louder and angrier.

Broll growled, "Son of Rexagan Foereaver and Mae'grah Wolfmother."

Another smack to the first side he struck, "Who are you, Son of Rexagan Foereaver and Mae'grah Wolfmother?" Guldra barks again. Drums faster, chants louder.

"I am the Silvertongue!"

Smack. The drums were beating now as if to guide an army to war and the chants became a cacophony of the lok'vadnods and lok'tras of his ancestors. He even heard his father and mother's.

"Who are you, Silvertongue?"

"I am an orc of the Blackrock Clan!"

A final brutal strike to the side of his head, Brollmosh sneered and breathed heavy in rage and turned his head to regard Guldra with fury. The bowls slowly drifted back to either side of Guldra from the side of the fire.

"Who are you, orc of the Blackrock Clan?" Guldra asked in rage to match Brollmosh's. The drums boomed with ferocity and speed, the chants now great throaty war-cries.

"I. AM. HORDE!" Brollmosh roars back in proud defiance.

"Then you are ready, Son of the Horde, to wear your war paint with pride!" Guldra cries out, taking the bowls in his ghostly hands and casting it into the fire. It rages with new life, wood crumbling at an accelerated rate as the inferno burned high and hot beside them. The drums and chants reached a crescendo and fell into a war-song. A driving, steady beat accompanied with ghostly cries and calls to battle.

"You shall wear this war-paint until your struggle for our people is ended in your triumph! Or you shall die with it upon you, consumed by the ashes that will liberate your spirit from its body to join us in honor of your great deeds! For our story tells: it is better to fight and fall than live eternity ashamed as a slave! LOK'TAR OGAR!" Guldra cried.

Brollmosh responded in kind and the fire exploded into a jet of flame into the sky. Guldra dissipated and Broll was sent reeling to the ground out of his vision. The world returned to its former vividness. Nature came to life around him in the early twilight hours of the morning. Never had he seen the war-paint ritual end so explosively. Then again, he'd never seen someone conjure a shaman's spirit to do it either.

He hazarded a gaze to the firepit; all that remained was blasted rock and scorched earth smoking down to nothing. He hurried to the nearby Southfury, looking down into the waters: he saw his war-paint reflected in the water. He reached to touch his face; it did not peel away when he scratched it. He felt its ashy, thick texture against his skin. A wolfish smile filled his features and a laugh turned to a roar as he unsheathed his weapons from his back and held them aloft in challenge to the world.


End file.
